


I just love a bromance

by phoenix_rose (mordwen)



Series: Bromance [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexual Richard Madden, Demisexual Taron Egerton, Dom/sub Undertones, Elton being a gay god, Enthusiastic Consent, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Polyamory Negotiations, Praise Kink, Resolved Romantic Tension, Slow Burn, Taron weeping, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 05:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19434829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose
Summary: “People like to look at you,” Taron says, very seriously, “because you’ve got big fluffy pillow lips and Frank Sinatra eyes…” and he has a flashback of kissing those lips again, as Richard practically squeaks, “Fluffy pillow lips???” and they play on that for a while and Taron’s thinking,you have no idea, do you, how soft your lips are, how much I want to kiss you again, the way you look at me…In October, Taron realises he might be falling for his co-star. By April, he's absolutely sure of it.





	I just love a bromance

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note: This fic is inspired by the constant touching and kissing between Taron and Richard and Taron constantly saying he’s straight. I want to be very clear that there’s every possibility Taron really is straight and I don’t want this fic to be mistaken for anything other than my personal theory about how he might be saying that and completely believe it but also be totally into Richard as much as his body language suggests. 
> 
> I also spent far, far too much time trawling through people’s instagrams and watching official Cannes videos and checking timestamps. If I’ve got anything wrong, please let me know!
> 
> The title is from Taron's [interview with Heart radio](https://twitter.com/thisisheart/status/1067533523299520512?s=20), where he said: “I’m very comfortable with myself, in terms of my sexuality. And I’m not afraid of a bit of male affection. In fact, I really enjoy it. And I think sometimes that means that people think that I might have a leaning towards men, and I’m sorry to disappoint, I don’t. I just love a bromance."
> 
> This is also my first ever fic so please go easy on me. Thanks to leithvoid & em for the beta. All errors are mine.

People had been saying Taron had to meet Richard Madden for years, but he didn’t imagine they would get on _this_ well. It’s practically unreal, just how quickly they’ve clicked. But here he is, with a co-star as comfortable with male affection as he is, all smiles, and warm hugs and “you look gorgeous, mate” and he wouldn’t give it up for quids.

Richard is on top of Taron and they’re both about as naked as it’s possible to get in a room full of cameras and crew. Taron kisses Richard again — well, Elton kisses John — and shifts beneath him, the slightly sweaty warm slide of skin familiar after three takes. His thigh comes up between Richard’s legs and _is that Richard’s cock?_ His breathing stops for a moment and he has to consciously focus on what he’s doing, but he’s certain cocks don’t feel like that when they’re soft. He can’t help himself; he arches up a little and presses into Richard without thinking, deepening the kiss and Richard pulls back a little, smiles and then kisses him again, and all of a sudden there’s a jolt of lightning that surges through Taron and he’s literally never felt like this while kissing someone in his life. 

Taron flips Richard over and Richard’s legs go up around Taron’s hips. They’re undulating against each other and Taron is trying to channel Elton’s lust and delight and amazement for his first time, imagining what it might feel like to really be fucking this muscular, gorgeous man and for a second he feels like he’s lost track of whether his moans are acting.

Taron’s halfway decided he needs to ask for a moment, when Dexter calls “Cut!” and then says, “I think we’ve got that one — love that little grin in the middle there, Richard. OK, let’s set up for the afterglow…”

Richard accepts a robe from an assistant, and gives Taron a quick salute. “Nature calls!” he says. “Back in a tick.” He heads towards the bathrooms and Taron, wrapping himself in his own robe, watches him go, wondering if any of that actually just happened.

***

“You ready, mate?” calls Richard.

“Yep, two ticks. I cannot believe we’re about to do Carpool Bloody Karaoke. This couldn’t have waited until we wrapped?”

“I just go where I’m told, T. I just go where I’m told.”

Taron checks himself out in the reflection of a car window as they pass it. “I’m keeping the cap on the whole time and you can’t change my mind. The hair is atrocious.”

And so of course, when they start filming, with him in the chicken suit and hot pink boa, Richard’s got to rib him about it.

“You look brilliant!” he says. And Taron just plays straight back at him, “It’s important that I feel good…”

“Push it in,” says Richard and _god_ Taron wants to come back to that with something filthy like they usually would, but there’s three different cameras strapped to the front of the dash and it’s hard not to remember their audience. Nonetheless, flirting is practically their brand now, so he teases back.

“You always get to look like cool smooth and winning and like a handsome leading man… and I look like a chicken…”

He can tell Richard’s trying not to crack up. “A handsome chicken… handsome…”

They pull over to do the costume change, and he gets back into the car. He’s a little awkward about that bit they just did, not quite sure if it isn’t taking the piss out of Elton in a way he’s just not comfortable with, now that he’s inhabited the man for all these months. But he takes a deep breath, and once he’s singing Bennie, everything fades apart from the music, like it always does.

And then he accidentally glances sideways at Richard and Richard’s just gazing at him adoringly, soft doe eyes and Taron’s so warm. “He’s so good, he is…” says Richard, straight to the camera, like a secret. And Taron just melts a little under the praise.

He finds himself babbling at points, talking about the juxtaposition of Elton’s vulnerability and intimidating genius and Richard’s just smiling at him like a dummy, with his big, open, sparkling eyes. 

For a moment, Taron’s embarrassed, like he’s been caught out. He knows he gets a bit intellectual sometimes, forgets to dumb down the language. But Richard has it all covered, turns it into a joke.

“I’m not sure if you were talking about Taron Egerton or Elton John…” he says.

“Well, that’s the thing,” quips Taron, “we have become entirely interchangeable… I wouldn’t say I’m a genius…”

“I heard you say I’m a genius…”

“Stop it because we’re on camera…” says Taron urgently.

Richard looks down and just grins. About three seconds later, they’ve relaxed into the banter, and it’s mostly performative, but still trying to make each other break.

“People like to look at you,” Taron says, very seriously, “because you’ve got big fluffy pillow lips and Frank Sinatra eyes…” and he has a flashback of kissing those lips again, as Richard practically squeaks, “Fluffy pillow lips???” and they play on that for a while and Taron’s thinking, _you have no idea, do you, how soft your lips are, how much I want to kiss you again, the way you look at me…_

He starts spinning absolute shite to try and keep himself distracted. It’s not easy when every second song they’ve chosen for them to sing seems to be about kissing.

_He kissed her there and then she took his ring, took his babies, it took him minutes, took her nowhere, heaven knows he would have taken anything but all right, she wants the Young American._

Taron hams it up more and more, getting increasingly passionate about singing Young Americans; Richard is bemused.

“This is all going very, very well,” says Taron as Richard’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out to dash off a quick text.

Somehow they’re talking about the kissing again — did Taron bring it up? Good grief, he did. Can’t help himself, can he? He should wait till they’ve wrapped. He’s promised himself. They’ll talk, as themselves, once they’ve wrapped, and he can wait until he knows how that conversation goes before he talks to Emily because right now, what would he even say? There’s nothing _to_ say. He tunes back into the conversation and Richard is saying, “You’re like one more for me…” and it’s easy to play along, “Well, I just felt like we could do it better,” he says. And for a heart-stopping moment, he decides to be honest, cameras be damned.

“I just felt like I needed to feel that connection from you so I wanted to do the kiss at least 100 times and that is not that unusual…”

But Richard’s still joshing about, playing the straight man, because he has to. “I mean it’s strange, because it wasn’t even in the script, those kisses…”

And this isn’t in the script either, but Taron leans over to kiss Richard, still trying to drive as well and it’s awkward as hell. Richard’s got his phone in one hand and the other hand on the car door; Taron goes behind him and somehow they touch tongues and Taron is gleeful “We did it, we did it!” before he tunes into the fact that Richard is looking at him in shock, slightly widened eyes, tension in his shoulders and hands, has just wiped his mouth on his sleeve like he’s a bit grossed out, and then clear as a bell, Richard says, “I get paid good money for that…” and that’s it. Taron’s world comes crashing down. _What the hell was he thinking?_ Whatever he’s thought was happening wasn’t. Richard doesn’t _want_ Taron. It’s all just a job, all just an _act_. What an idiot he was for thinking anything else.

Thankfully, it’s not live and they’ll cut straight from that to Rocketman or maybe just not use it at all but he knows anyone looking closely would be able to see there have been tears in his eyes, sook that he is. He really, really needs to stop doing this. He winds down his window and belts the song out into the world — putting on the face has always been the best antidote to those feels.

Three days later, they wrap and it’s bittersweet. 

***

November is a mix of extremes. He doesn’t want to think about how badly the conversation with Emily went. He’s too open and honest to play games with people who care about him, so he doesn’t lie to her but there’s nothing to tell, really. He’s not sure she believes him. It’s a separation, supposedly, but to him it feels like the end.

The first thing he does when he gets home is shave off the awful Elton hair. It’s weirdly liberating at the same time as he’s terrified it will never grow back the same. But then, he’s half convinced he’ll never be the same, either, so there’s some bitter poetic justice in that. He posts a photo of the hair to Insta — like, just the hair, on a bench — and it’s liked by 34,000 people and what even is his life any more.

Then there’s the incredible highs of hanging out with his sisters and seeing Frozen and going to an Elton concert with Dex and David for his birthday, and Elton dedicates a song to him and Dex and did he mention _what even is his life?_

Then there’s all the damn media. Some of it’s incredibly flattering — did Ian McKellen seriously just flirt with him on national telly? He figures you could see his blush from Mars. But most of the interviews are emotional torture. If the interviewer isn’t asking if he’s got a girlfriend ( _No, actually, I don’t and that’s a very recent development_ ) then they’re asking what it was like kissing Richard ( _I loved every second of it, thanks for bloody reminding me_ ).

Early on, there’s the Robin Hood screening and for three seconds he gets to talk about something other than Rocketman, but woven through it all are events with Richard and hanging out with Richard and thinking, constantly, unendingly, about Richard and how much he means to him, and how much he hopes he hasn’t ruined everything and when he says, to some interviewer at some radio station towards the end of the month, _I’m not into men, sorry to disappoint, I just love a bromance_ he means it, he means it, and he’s hoping, hoping that Richard is listening and that Richard believes it too and that he hasn’t ruined this incredibly special thing they have between them.

And then — because honestly, it never stops at the moment — he’s back in the studio recording for Sing 2, and he’s kind of grateful that he barely has time to scratch himself.

He heads home to Aber for the holidays. It’s all lovely and normal, hanging out with his friends, spending time with his Mam and his sisters, you know, right up until [Elton and David send the biggest hamper he’s ever seen in his life](https://www.instagram.com/p/Br0VAuFlmCc/?igshid=1jeihunzmdiu2) to the house and his Mam is over the moon.

***

In January, Richard wins a bloody Golden Globe for the Bodyguard because of course he does, he's fecking _brilliant_ , and Taron is thrilled to be there and thrilled to introduce him to Jack, because [best mates should get to know best mates](https://maddennfl86.tumblr.com/post/186283364142/fine),[right](https://www.instagram.com/p/BsUD2-CF5-X/)?

He goes to the BAFTAs with Emily, because it was pre-arranged and because he wants them to be friends still, and she looks utterly gorgeous, and he gazes adoringly at her for the cameras because, _bloody hell_ , what’s he supposed to do? But they have the conversation they planned to have after, and it goes the way he expected it to, her insisting he’s in love with Richard, and him saying she’s reading too much into mates showing each other affection, and so even though the media is having a field day, he posts precisely none of those photos to his Instagram because it’s nobody’s business, really, is it?

He gets solidly, rip-roaring plastered in a truly dedicated way over the following week. At one point he catches himself holding a publicity still of Richard and bawling his eyes out, and he thinks that it’s entirely possible he’s actually losing it. He settles in to finally watch the Bodyguard while he’s nursing a hangover. He’s not sure how that was supposed to help, because all it does is remind him how plush Richard’s arse is, and how it feels to get a handful of it and squeeze and next thing he knows, he’s got a fist down his pants and he’s coming, gasping, while in the background, Richard’s face fills the screen, mouth open, eyes closed in ecstasy.

Taron doesn’t drunk dial Richard even once, but it’s a very close thing.

The trailer comes out and it gives him a bit of a wake-up call. He pulls himself together in time for the Oscars, because he’s a bloody professional, thanks very much. Professional or not, though, singing a duet with Elton Hercules John is easily the most overwhelming thing he’s ever done in his entire life.

***

Late in March, the Carpool Karaoke goes live and Taron has trouble believing what he’s looking at. Richard is just staring at Taron in these shots like he hung the moon. He wasn’t imagining those looks. And there’s that moment when he puts his hand on Richard’s knee when they’re singing “Faith”, and he can almost feel Richard’s little gasp but at the time he’d been looking straight ahead and missed it completely. Has Taron been misreading this all this time? And if that’s the case, what’s Taron supposed to _do_ about that?

A week later, he finishes off the final touches of ADR and vocals for Rocketman with Giles Martin. He doesn’t have anything planned for the afternoon — Elton's birthday party isn't till later — so he heads up to the roof with a six-pack and tries to relax. Taron sucks his lip between his teeth again. He nervously toys with his phone, flicking the screen on, off, on. Finally, he flips it on again and opens a text to Elton.

_(18:31) Hey, mate. Got a sec?_

He hesitates; hits send before he can psych himself out. He’s all set to put it away when the dots rise up and his stomach twists again.

**(18:32) For you, always. What’s on your mind?”**

_(18:35) I need to talk about something… in person, if that’s okay? Sorry to be such a downer._

**(18:36) Don’t be ridiculous.[You are fun in a bottle and I fucking adore you.](https://twitter.com/justegerton/status/1133409582640971777)**

_(18:37) So needed to hear that tonight. You’re a legend._

**(18:38) Flattery. Get yourself over here and we’ll talk before the party.**

_(18:40) I still can’t quite believe this is my life, El. I’ll see you in 20._

He takes [a photo of the sunset and posts it to Insta with a quick caption](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bvmk6GHF0hW/). He grabs his denim jacket from the back of the chair, swigs the rest of his beer and heads downstairs.

***

The London house is relatively modest, compared to LA. Taron lets himself through the gate and it’s far too short a walk to the front door to have second thoughts, but he gives it a solid go. He knocks, and David lets him in. “He’s in the lounge room. The boys have just gone to bed so we’re all softly softly until they’re definitely asleep. Can I get you anything?”

“Water’s fine — thanks so much.” David gestures ahead of him and Taron heads down the corridor and lets himself into the room. Elton levers himself up from the couch — there’s some stiffness these days. He holds his arms out to Taron, and then envelopes him in a sweeping hug. Taron kisses his cheek, as usual, and suddenly, all his tension dissipates. Bizarre as it is, this man is family now and this is home.

“Happy birthday, old mate,” Taron says to Elton, flirty as fuck. “Did you like the [photo I sent you](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bvb7CUalphK/)?”

Elton smirks at him. “You know I did, you old tart. All right, then. What’s so mysterious you can’t text it to me?”

Taron groans and rubs his hand across his mouth. He steps back and falls into the well-stuffed arm chair. “I have no clue where to start.”

David comes in with a tray and three glasses of sparkling water, hands them out and then goes to sit next to Elton on the couch. Elton gently touches David’s hand before he sits, and there’s a brief exchange between them without words. David waits as Elton looks across the room again. “Taron, is this a ‘just us’ conversation or can David stay?”

“I trust you both with my life, so…”

“Thanks, Taron,” says David. He makes himself comfortable next to Elton after all, puts his glass on the side-table, and rests his hand on Elton’s knee.

The silence stretches uncomfortably while Taron tries to work out what to say. “So. When I…” He clears his throat and starts again. “When we first met, you asked me if I’d ever been with a man, and I told you about my mates that came out to me.”

“I remember,” says Elton. “Has something happened to one of them?”

“Nah, this is entirely about me. My head’s spinning. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

David shifts slightly to reach for his water. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?” he says.

“Before… before Emily, I really hadn’t had a girlfriend. I’d just never been that interested. And then Emily… was just so incredible. She came on to me. And at first, I didn’t think anything but we got closer and it slowly started happening, and I thought, you know, finally. Just like you said to me, about John. That you were normal. Because you’d done it. And I thought, okay then, I’m into girls. Women. Right?”

Elton nods. “So, what happened? I know you two split up in November… a week after filming finished wasn’t it?”

“Something like that… I told her…” He looks away, across the room, then down into his glass. “I told her I was confused about how I felt, because… I couldn’t stop thinking about…” He looks up, straight at Elton, takes a breath. “About Richard. About kissing Richard.” He drinks. Swallows. “She gave me three months to sort my shit out and make a decision. And I thought I had…”

“Hence the BAFTAs…” says David.

“Hence the BAFTAs,” agrees Taron, mournfully. “I do love her.”

Elton nods. “Tell me about Richard. You two didn’t hook up on set… I think David would have noticed that and brought me _that_ delicious rumour…”

David’s smile is transcendent. Taron just laughs. “No, we did not hook up on set. I just thought it was character bleed. And I knew he was bi, and I thought I was reacting to his… acting… or his desire… for me… or that he just got hard kissing any man, because if he’s bi, I mean, I’m not hard on the eyes, right? But I haven’t been lying when I’ve said it was electric, kissing him. It was like nothing I’ve ever felt before.” 

“ _A kiss or touch could feel like Kryptonite…”_ croons Elton.

Taron nods. “Ha. Yes. But what _is_ this? I mean, I know everyone jokes about that one guy you’d go gay for, but really? This? Feels different…” He trails off.

“You’ve said before that when you met Richard, it was like a long-lost friend,” says Elton.

“Yeah, it was magic.”

“And you spent a lot of time on set together, didn’t you? Fast friends.”

“Constant.”

Elton leans forward, hands on his knees. “Taron, have you ever heard the word ‘demisexual’ before?”

***

“So, Richard… I fucked up…” Taron takes a breath. Squares up to the mirror, tries again. “So, Richard, you know Em and I aren’t a thing any more? Ugh!” He rubs his hand over stubble, and tries not to think about Richard kissing him, fails. “So, Richard. I’ve realised recently that kissing you… was magnificent… transformative… You’ve become one of my best mates and…” Taron covers his entire face with both hands.

It’s early April. The Met Gala is in a month and he knows Richard’s invited. He’s got time.

In the evenings, he runs fingers light as feathers over his chest, imagining it’s Richard, and enjoys the foreign sensations of arousal pooling in his belly, hot in his centre, lets himself float in the feeling, stretched thin and arched, imagines all the time unspooling ahead of them, of press conferences and parties and maybe just life. He dares to hope. 

He texts Emily. Simple, to the point. _You were right. I’m sorry I hurt you. I love you, always._

On the fourth, they take extended footage to CinemaCon and the reaction is incredible. If Taron is a little bit indulgent in describing himself as ‘[proud and happy and slightly overwhelmed](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bv2k4ahldjc/)’, and ‘giddy as hell’, he’s definitely not lying when he writes that he’s ‘starting to let myself believe that it might be a good summer’. If he doesn’t also mention that he’s half terrified he’s setting himself up for abject failure, well, that’s just sensible self-protection, innit?

He heads back home for a few days, because he knows that the next month is going to be hectic as hell — New York, Cannes, Sydney, Seoul. He can barely remember the itinerary. It’s going to be exhausting.

And so it’s in [a cafe in Aberystwyth on a sunny Monday morning](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bv6202hlgZg/) that he sees the photos, and where the world drops out beneath him for the second time. Richard’s got his arm around Brandon Flynn, and his hand is curled possessive into Brandon’s neck. Brandon’s arm is around Richard’s back and there’s no way this is anything but what it looks like. And Taron can’t breathe.

That doesn’t stop him stalking Richard’s instagram and posting outrageous comments on [photos of Richard kissing some woman for Vogue](https://www.instagram.com/p/BwAPSkyg1EL/). “Fair play,” he types. “I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.” And he comments [on a glowing review by Branagh about Richard’s “intense sex appeal”](https://www.instagram.com/p/BwXr5nVgqaB/) and Rich responds with three laugh emojis. He’s telling the truth, but all the same, it feels like the worst kind of lie. Richard posts almost nothing personal and it feels like Taron is breaking through the facade at the same time as he’s playing his real emotions as publicity and he needs a goddamned shower.

***

The Met Gala comes around far too fast. Just a few weeks ago, he would have had butterflies just thinking of seeing Richard, but those photos in LA are just far too intimate to be coincidence. He knows he’s left it all too late. 

He’s just landed at his New York hotel the day before the gala when he gets a text from Richard. He’s exhausted. Aberystwyth’s a 7-hour flight away and there’s a five-hour time difference. It’s been a long day. 

“Afternoon, sleepyhead. TGH balcony caf in 30 mins? Coffee waiting for you.” And Taron remembers that as far as Richard knows, nothing has changed in their bromance and he’s expecting to catch up before the Gala. It’s not like Taron actually got around to having a conversation with the man, is it? That would be expecting far too much. Well, if nothing else, Taron’s a consummate actor.

He texts back, “You know me far too well. Order me food too?” He showers, shaves, towels his hair dry. He throws on a blue T-shirt and some jeans and calls for a car.

At the café, Richard’s smile looks just as luminous as he remembers. Taron slides right onto the seat next to Richard and folds him into a hug. He pulls back just enough to look him in the eye. 

“Evening, beautiful,” he says and means it. Richard is wearing a black T and his hair’s just a little messy and Taron has no idea how he can look this amazing without a stylist. “Evening, love,” says Richard, that warm brogue like honey, and Taron has to remind himself that ‘love’ is something Richard calls everyone. _Friends, friends, friends._ It’s become a mantra in his head.

“Your coffee, sir,” says Richard with a laugh, pushing it towards Taron. Taron laughs and picks up the cup with his spare hand, takes a sip. 

“Oh, god. That’s amazing.” He drinks half the cup, puts it back down.

They’re interrupted by an older woman’s voice. “Uh, excuse me… do you mind if I get a photo with you for my daughter?” 

They both look up, a little startled. “She loved you in Bodyguard…” she continues.

Richard smiles, indulgently. “Not a problem.” He poses for the selfie with her, then moves back towards Taron.

“Actually,” says Taron. “Would you mind doing us a favour? Would you take a photo of us with my phone?”

“Oh gosh, of course.” He hands the phone to her, wraps his arm back around Richard and gazes at him, all his love and hope in that one look. “Just like this…” he murmurs. And Richard grins back at him just as he hears the click of the shutter. The photo is perfect and he favourites it.

The woman leaves and their food arrives, seared salmon and sides of asparagus and crunchy potatoes and it all looks terrific.

Richard is still just grinning at him. “How do you feel about maybe hitting a club tonight? I could do with a dance…”

Taron grins right back. This is still Richard, his mate, his _friend_. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

While Richard’s getting the bill, [Taron posts the photo of the pair of them to his Insta](https://www.instagram.com/p/BxGTqO3l_mT/). ‘Swipe left to see our Met outfits,” he quips, and posts a publicity still of them in their Honky Cat gowns.

***

The club has an area cordoned off for VIPs, and they’re having a great time. He’s probably had a bit too much to drink, but that’s not new, and he’s relaxed enough to genuinely enjoy Richard’s company again. They just _click_. 

Richard’s been texting on and off all night, and around 10pm, there’s another buzz and Richard swears softly, check his phone, laughs and then angles the camera for a selfie in the dark. “Smile for Brandon!” he says, and Taron does, instinctively, throws his arm around Richard, his other hand on Richard’s shoulder, before he can think about the implications, and apparently Richard is more drunk than Taron is, because after he texts it to Brandon, [Richard posts it to his Insta story with a rocket emoji ](https://tarondegertons.tumblr.com/post/184678874002/richard-and-taron-via-richards-instagram-stories)and Taron cracks up.

“You’re asking for trouble, you are…”

“Ah, come on. It’s all a laugh. It’ll be gone in 24 hours and none the wiser.” His phone buzzes again and he angles it so Taron can see. Brandon has written back, “Score!” and a rocket emoji, sunglasses, microphone and a heart. Taron swallows and schools his expression into his game face. _Friends, best friends._

“Such a tease. You’re so naughty.”

And there’s a split second where Richard’s eyes flash at him, like heat, and then it’s gone again. “Same again?” Richard asks, holding up his glass.

“Think I’ll turn in,” says Taron. “Can’t wait to see you in your finery tomorrow.” And he leans in for a hug goodbye, kisses Richard’s forehead, and makes his escape before he puts his foot in it.

He sleeps for far too many hours, but restless sleep, sleep filled with dreams of him and Dickie, kissing in a nightclub, reflected a thousand times in the mirrored surface of the disco ball under the green laser smokiness and the pulse of the bass.

***

It’s his first time at the Gala and it’s such an honour. The theme is Notes on Camp and it should have been a slam-dunk to go in hotpants but he’s just not feeling it. Salvatore talked about sparkles and playing with convention but as he ties his string tie, he just feels flat and disconnected. 

He checks himself out in the full-length mirror and steels himself for an evening of casual touches from Richard that he has to pretend mean nothing to him at all. He applies just the right amount of eye-liner and winks at himself, finger guns blazing. Show time.

Then he’s on the red carpet — well, the ugly pink carpet — and he manages to get through the formal photography unscathed. Everyone who's anyone is here and he’s out of his depth, but they’re all being so _kind_. It’s his first Gala, but it’s not his first rodeo, and they know him from Kingsman and they know him from years of theatre and hard work, and he knows how to do this. 

He circulates, doesn’t linger long with any one crowd. Smiles and nods. Drinks one beer. Two.

He’s fine until he sees Richard, that stripe of white hair, his bloody blue-as-the-sky eyes, the shiny black lapels on a black suit with a black shirt and that fucking nouveau art _kilt pin_ and Taron is _gone._ He grabs another beer off a serving tray as he heads up a staircase towards the balconies — somewhere, he needs some _air_. He loosens the stupid string tie and pockets it, runs his hand through his hair, gulps back half the bottle. _Fuck. Get it together._

He turns a corner and the corridor is quiet enough that he stops, leaning his head against the wall and then gently bangs his head against the cool plaster like he can knock some sense into himself. _They’re friends, they’re friends._ He’s got to find his way back into that. _They’re_ best _friends._ And he’s kicking himself over months wasted and what could have been and the whiplash of possibility lost, and he remembers _deep breaths_. Of course, that’s when Richard rounds the corner and spots him, head tilted towards him questioning, eyebrow raised.

“You all right, lad? You disappeared…”

And he’s utterly mesmerising, all planes and angles, steel and softness and anything Taron had rehearsed all those weeks ago has just flown clear out of his head. He pulls it all back in, stuffs it down, puts on the face. “Yeah, mate, fine. Just needed some air.”

"Had to find you. I've got news I can't tell anyone! I'm bursting out of my skin!"

"Is it that audition you went for?" Richard nods, a little breathless.

"I'm capturing this moment for posterity," says Taron, angling his phone for a selfie.

"Ye cannae do that, T!"

"I'm not posting it now! I'll hold onto it till it's official. Promise." [And Richard laughs as Taron grins wide and clicks.](https://www.instagram.com/p/B0KLye8lIgx/)

“I’m headed for a smoke — you in?” says Richard.

“Ugh, trying to give up, I told you. But I’ll come and watch you poison yourself.” _They’re friends, they’re friends._

As they walk down the corridor toward the balcony, Taron bites his lip nervously. He can’t fucking help himself. “So, you and Brandon getting serious?”

Richard blushes a little, laughs. “You saw that, hey? Yeah, I’d say we are. Introduced him to the folks…”

“Saw that too.”

“Did ye now? You checking up on me, T?” He elbows Taron in the ribs, laughing.

“Might be.”

“Bit jealous?” Still with a glint, kidding.

Taron looks at Richard seriously. “Might be.”

Richard’s expression stumbles for a moment but he recovers quickly. “No need for that, mate. You’re my celebrity exception.”

Taron stops and gapes at him. His brain is refusing to process that. “Jesus, Dickie. You can’t just say things like that!”

Richard stops too and searches Taron’s face. “Can’t I, now? If it’s true…”

 _If it’s true…_ Images of kissing Richard right here in the corridor float unbidden into Taron’s mind and a bolt of desire shocks through him. _Brave, be brave._ Taron reaches out and catches Richard’s hand in his fingertips. Richard looks down at their hands and back up. The hope blooming in Taron feels so fragile. “I… Dickie… Richard…”

“Taron. What’s going on here? If you’re pulling my leg… or if you’re not serious…”

There’s a bathroom, right there, barely two more steps, and they desperately need to be somewhere more private. Richard pulls his hand away from Taron’s to fumble for the door, waves Taron through it, looking hopeful. Taron checks the corridor, then looks back to Richard, those ice-blue eyes and those cheekbones and he can feel his heart juddering in his chest. _This wide-eyed wanderer_ , he thinks, and steps forward.

The second the door is closed, Taron backs Richard up against the nearest wall, takes his hand again. He’s tipsy but he’s not drunk. “I’m serious…” he says.

Taron looks down at Richard’s lips again, glances back up, his breath caught in his throat.

“I thought you were straight, T,” says Richard. “I keep hearing ye say it in yer interviews…”

Taron swallows. “I… it’s complicated…” He strokes his thumb against Richard’s wrist helplessly, and watches as Richard’s eyes flutter shut for a moment. “But I’m not… leading you on, I swear. I…” Swallow. Breathe. “… want you, so much, Rich, you don’t even know.”

Richard lifts his free hand to the back of Taron’s neck, curls his fingers into the hair at the nape. He pauses for a second. “Last chance to back out, love…”

Taron closes the space between them, soft touch of lips, hard cock up against Richard’s thigh, thinking _now he knows now there’s no hiding it he knows he has to know_. And Richard gasps into the kiss and grinds against Taron. “Oh gods, man.”

His hand falls to Taron’s waist, kissing hungrily, and it’s an echo of a scene but instead of reaching for his arse, Richard loops a finger into Taron’s pants and yanks him even closer. “I’ve wanted ye since I first laid eyes on you, T. What took ye so long?”

“Long story… ahhhh…” he moans as Richard presses against his trapped cock again. “Ohhh, the things I want you to do to me…”

“Tell me.” Richard runs a finger down the shell of Taron’s ear, down his neck, across his shoulder. “Tell me, beautiful man.” He leans forward to whisper to Taron, kissing the soft skin of his throat, nibbling at his earlobe in between each phrase. Undoes the buttons at the top of his crisp white shirt. “I’ve had months… to fantasise… about you… Been watching you… all night… I want… to make you… feel _everything_.” And Taron gasps.

“Want that, Rich. Want my mouth on you… want you… in me… I’ve never… but I want to be so good for you…”

And then they’re kissing again, frantic, and it’s nothing like it was on set, calculated and stop-start-repeat, this is tongues and heat, and frotting and Richard’s hand in his hair, his hand on Richard’s bicep and waves of lust pulsing through him. They’ve both got a good stubble going now, and the rough rasp as they switch angles makes Taron groan out loud.

There are voices in the corridor and they pull apart for a moment. Richard reaches over to the light switch and turns it off, and they stand stock still for a moment panting against the wall. 

“Brunch tomorrow?” says Richard. “And we’ll talk about it.”

“Okay,” pants Taron. He’d agree to anything right now. His head is spinning.

“I’ll text you.” Richard leans in again, kisses Taron ever so soft on the mouth, presses a finger to his lips, straightens his suit, and slides out the door.

Taron takes a moment to gather his senses but still heads back down the stairs a bit blind and not really thinking, which is the perfect set up for him to run into a pap, while his hair’s a mess and his shirt’s undone and he looks well-kissed up against a wall in a bathroom by one of Britain’s fucking hottest leading men right now and isn’t that just fucking _brilliant._

And then he thinks about Richard’s warm breath against his ear, and his soft lips against his skin, and he just keeps grinning to himself all the way back to the hotel.

***

He wakes up groggy and keeps wanting to pinch himself. Richard kissed him. Not Richard-as-Reid, not acting. Richard _wants_ him.

And then he wakes up a bit more and groans. Richard is with Brandon. That hasn’t changed. Taron is the get-out-of-jail-free, one-time dealio exception, who you screw when you get the chance and then you’re done. It might not be cheating but it still feels cheap and the worst of it is, he has no idea if he has the fortitude to turn Richard down if that’s all that’s on offer.

But if he’s honest with himself, he’s in love with Richard. And he doesn’t want this to be a one-off. He doesn’t want to be a homewrecker either. And he doesn’t want to hang around waiting until maybe one day, he and Richard are both free at the same time. And he’s not sure how they’re supposed to be just friends with this hanging over them. 

Oh, man, he is _so screwed_.

But Richard said they’d talk this morning and he knows they ought to, so he texts him and notes the place is walking distance, so he throws on sunnies and a cap, dresses down and heads out.

“So,” says Richard, after they’ve settled in to the private booth Richard’s arranged and Taron’s got coffee and Richard’s got yet another of those green juices that he loves. “Last night…”

“I don’t regret it,” says Taron. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

“It is,” says Richard. “You weren’t exactly sober…”

“I knew what I was doing. I’ve been thinking about kissing you since we wrapped.”

Richard looks away for a split second. “Have you, now?” He takes a breath. “Well, I would very much like to do a lot more of that and I wasn’t joking about Him Indoors being fine with it. I’ll need to have a chat with him before anything else happens, though.”

For a moment, Taron is utterly confused. And then he realises that Richard is literally talking about checking in with his _boyfriend_ about what he can do with _Taron_ and it’s both the weirdest thing he’s ever heard and simultaneously relationship goals. 

“Uh… yeah, course.” he stutters. _All class, mate_. And then he decided to be brave. “Uh… so I… I’m not looking for a one-night-stand. If that’s relevant to the conversation.”

“Of course what you want is ‘relevant to the conversation’, ye great duffer,” says Richard. “So what are you looking for?”

“Uh… friends with benefits?” Taron’s blushing up to his hairline. _That has to be enough, right?_ He can’t ask for more, not when Richard’s getting serious with someone else. Anything more is just being greedy, making things complicated for his friend. He doesn’t want to be selfish, doesn’t want to be _that guy_.

Richard smiles at him kindly. “I can definitely work with that,” he says.

And then the conversation turns to the Gala and who they ran into, and Darren Criss’ jacket, and Richard shows Taron the awful photo the pap took of him and it’s worse than Taron imagined and he’s mortified but you’ve gotta laugh, right? Then onto plans for Cannes, and Taron’s arranged a yacht for a bunch of mates after the screening, and does Dickie want to join them?

Eventually, they wind down, and Taron’s staying in New York for a few more days but Richard is heading home to LA for some down time before the circus begins for real.

They hug goodbye — long and meaningful, just like it was on set, but with an extra spark, and Taron leans over and kisses Richard on the cheek. “Tell your man thanks from me, okay?” says Taron, holding Richard’s forearms tightly. “I can’t imagine I’d be as generous in his shoes.”

“I will. And I’ll see you in… good grief, nine days, is it? But I’ll call you afore then, all right, T?”

“You’d better.” Taron pulls himself away with an effort. “My turn for the tab, eh?” And he signals to the waiter for the check as Richard heads out.

He feels lighter than he has for months. That night, heading back to the hotel in a cab, he sees an enormous billboard with his body on it glittering in the white and blue Dodger Stadium outfit against the night sky, his face bigger than half a building, and he’s giddy with all of it, [turns his camera around and films himself and the billboard, laughing](https://www.instagram.com/p/BxL_4QsF38Z/)… _that is really strange… shiiiit._

***

Three days later, he gets a cryptic text from Richard:

B bestows blessings for Cannes & fwb & hopes we have a great time. Talk deets soon.

It makes Taron’s stomach swoop with anticipation… and makes his heart ache just a little. When he catches himself unconsciously singing _I Want Love_ in the shower later, he lets himself feel it.

***

On Tuesday, Richard asks for a time when he’ll be home for a call, and he gets butterflies responding that he’s home now. His phone rings immediately and he answers it, clears his throat.

“You’re keen. That barely rang!” says Richard.

“Definitely keen. Don’t want you to get the wrong idea, now, y’know?” Taron laughs, and the tension’s gone. “So, is this a booty call, or…?”

“Sorry, nothing like that. This is logistics, I’m afraid. I don’t think there are any dealbreakers here, but let me know if there are.”

“Go on…” says Taron. _God, the man’s voice._ He puts the phone between his ear and his neck while he gets a beer from the fridge.

“The first one’s kind of obvious. So Brandon’s good with anything we want to do, so long as we’re safe. Safe sex only, regular tests,” says Richard.

“Goes without saying, mate. But also I guess it needed to be said. Yes, no problem. Next?” He settles down on his couch, opens his beer, puts his feet up on the table.

“No interviews, nothing in public, but no denying it if people work it out. Brandon and I aren’t in the closet, but our private lives are our private lives, and we respect yours too. We won’t participate in the speculation but we won’t be drawn into distancing ourselves from it either. We want that same honesty from you. I know that might be harder for you… you’ve said over and over you’re straight…”

“I know. I told you, it’s a long story. But that’s totally fair, and I’m fine with it. I’ve never hidden that I’m comfortable with male affection and I wasn’t planning some big coming out presser, so yes, done. Our arrangements are our business and no one else’s. Next?”

“Brandon wants to meet you, as soon as we can arrange it. If this might be long term, he doesn’t want it feeling like we’re sneaking around behind his back. He’s fine with it just being the once, or with you two becoming friends, but it needs to happen soon.”

“Fair. The least I can do. Anything else?” 

“Not from me or B. Anything from you?” asks Richard.

“I don’t really know yet, mate.” _Don’t compare me to him_ , he thinks. _Love me._ “Wait, yes, I do. I need to be able to talk to people about it. Are you okay with Elton, Jamie and Dex knowing?”

“Absolutely. Pretty sure Jamie already does. I might have talked to him about you a few times already…”

“Have you now?” breathes Taron. “I cannot wait to see you, Rich. Cannot wait to kiss you again.”

Taron can hear Richard’s breathing deepen on the phone. “The feeling’s mutual,” he says.

***

Taron’s alarm goes off bright and far, far too early the day of the Premiere. He gropes for the snooze button and squints at the time. It’s springtime in Cannes and he’s got a full day of photo calls, and press and that means a fair bit of the day with Richard. It also means snappers everywhere so he has to be careful. Head a little fuzzy from the bar last night, he’s grateful he guzzled down two full tumblers of water at the end.

He drags himself towards the bathroom, pisses and shaves. Splashes his face and then heads for the wardrobe and the suit bag hanging there, pulls on the soft blue T-shirt that will go under the fabulous gold and sky blue suit. There’s a note from Elton delivered and he opens it, expecting instructions for where to meet or something equally prosaic. Instead, it’s personal and so touching, wishing him a wonderful day, and thanking him. "We're cut from the same cloth,” he’s written. “I hope I can be around for many years to come to be your touchstone. E." Taron stands for a moment, hand on his heart, eyes damp. 

Five hours later, he feels like he’s said the same thing 200 times with an armful of smiling Richard, the man’s hand just resting on Taron’s chest, and he can’t help but grin back at him. That easy camaraderie just settles into his bones around Richard and he thinks to himself, _I’m so lucky to have even this… but maybe, maybe I can tell him… maybe it won’t change anything._

And then the moment passes, and Richard’s off somewhere else while Taron’s on to the next interview, Elton radiant in powder blue, praising Taron and saying his singing is brilliant and Taron still can’t believe he’s here.

There’s a mere 45 minutes on the schedule to get changed into his velvet tux for the red carpet — sorry, _the red steps_ — so he barely has time to register that this is actually _it_. Back out in the sun, David and Elton are chatting with Dexter and the whole troupe are there. And god, Richard looks absolutely _stunning_ in a white tux. It’s hard to take his eyes off him. So he focuses on the crowd, almost overwhelmed. Someone in the crowd yells “I love you, Taron!” and he points at her, mouths it back to her, channeling all that superstar swagger. It’s almost too much, so when he notices Elton’s shoe is undone, it’s a great opportunity to bend down and take a moment to get himself back together.

“Are you proposing, Taron?” jokes Elton as he gets down on one knee.

“Sorry, he’s taken!” says David, and they all laugh. It belatedly occurs to Taron that this photo is going to be absolutely everywhere tomorrow, so he hams it up a bit.

And then there’s the screening itself, of this film, this _work_ that means so much to him, that is his greatest creative achievement so far. Only two seats away, Elton is putting his hand on Bernie’s knee and sobbing, and on Elton’s other side is his _husband._ Meanwhile Richard is sitting just one seat away from Taron, on the other side of Dexter, and Richard has no idea how Taron feels about him and Taron sinks into that awful knowledge that he almost missed his chance with this incredible man. He has no idea if he’ll ever feel like this about anyone again. On the screen, the credits start to roll and the words _loved properly_ come up and Taron’s throat constricts, his eyes prickle and all of a sudden, he’s weeping, overcome and then of course the lights come up and there’s a standing ovation that goes on forever. He stands as well, dashes his hand across his eyes. _For god’s sake, pull yourself together!_ At least he can pass it off that it was watching Elton that did it to him. They’re still applauding. Elton leans over to him and whispers into his ear, praise and gratitude and reassurance, and he’s in floods of tears again. He grasps Elton’s forearms and fervently looks into his eyes, trying to convey how much it all means to him, and Elton meets his eyes, nods back. _I know. I understand._

Then Elton’s hugging Bernie and Taron’s hugging Dexter, and they’re _still_ applauding. David hands him a handkerchief and he wipes his eyes while Elton hugs Dexter, and then Richard and then Bryce, who laughs uproariously at something Elton said, and they all smile. And then finally he’s got himself calm enough to go and hug Richard, and somehow the applause gets louder again, and he is so deeply humbled and proud and awed to be here.

Somehow they pull it together to perform on the huge stage on the beach, and then it’s just the core crew in Dex’s room, the whiskey flowing and Richard is smiling at him, arm casually over the back of his chair and everything is perfect. Taron knocks back another sip, peaty and smoky, just the right amount of burn as it goes down, listens to the low murmur of conversation around them, laughter rising every so often. This might well be the best night of his life so far. He leans back against Richard’s arm, anticipation sparking in him — he could do this forever, be Richard’s good friend, with benefits, intimate and warm. 

Far too many hours later, considering they have a press conference in the morning, Dexter kicks them all out. Taron and Richard’s rooms aren’t far from each other, and not far from Dexter’s either, so it’s not odd when they stumble off in the same direction. It’s been an incredibly long day, and they’ve been together for almost all of it, but this is the first time they’ve been alone.

At first, they don’t say anything, just walk in silence, looking up at each other every so often and grinning, a little shy with each other all of a sudden. Richard kicks the side of Taron’s shoe like a teenager, bumps his shoulder and hip. “My leading man,” he rumbles low, gravelly and suggestive.

And Taron catches his breath, flushed instantly with desire. _Yours,_ he thinks. He just bumps Richard back, friendly. And then they’re at Taron’s room, and Taron fumbles for the keycard, opens the door. “After you, handsome,” hand out ahead of him and Richard bows slightly, then takes Taron’s hand and pulls him into the room, shuts the door. Richard surges into him, hands on either side of Taron’s face and kisses him fiercely, hungry. Taron hands are in Richard’s hair and he’s kissing him back, like he’s been starving.

“Oh, Richard, ohhhh, missed you.” He kisses him again, deeper, lips opening to Richard’s tongue and Richard moans into it.

“Couldn’t keep my hands off you fer a second longer. T… ohhh, god,” as Taron starts to kiss down Richard’s neck. “Get this off…” he pushes at Taron’s shoulder and they both shrug out of their fancy jackets; Taron lays Richard’s stiff white one over his grey velvet on the back of a chair. He takes Richard’s hand, draws him over to the couch, pulls him down next to him, kisses his hand, his wrist. Richard moans again. “I wanted to check in with you…”

“Can we talk like this, though?” he says, stroking Richard’s thigh. “Nothing in the rules that says we have to be separated by a ruler’s length?”

“Not sure I’ll be able to concentrate, but no, nothing in the rules like that.”

“So talk to me…” and Taron runs one fingernail up Richard’s leg and back to his knee.

“I… uh… only that, this is your first time, right, T? Far as I’m concerned, you’re running the show. If there’s anything that makes you feel uncomfortable, you tell me and we stop, okay?”

Taron nods, threads his fingers into Richard’s hair and scratches gently at his scalp. 

“Mmmmm… You’re going to be the death of me. You’ve got condoms?

And Taron says, “I do, mate, but also I’m on PrEP, all good…” and Richard has to laugh. 

“Do I have to thank Elton for educating you and for the amazing deep dicking I am about to receive?”

“Who says you’re getting the deep dicking, Dickie?” 

And Richard stops smirking and his hand tightens almost imperceptibly on Taron’s arm. His voice sounds a little strangled when he finally says, “I have to say, I was no expecting you to say that…”

“I wasn’t kidding the other day when I said I wanted that, Richard. I’m happy either way — just to be clear. And yes, you have to thank Elton. Probably in those exact words. He’d appreciate it. ‘Thank you, Elton, for educating Taron. We enjoyed the deep dicking. Here are some flowers.”

“Idiot,” says Richard fondly, and leans in for a kiss. This one’s softer, slower, and something in Taron’s chest cracks open. 

Taron runs his fingertips up Richard’s arm, reaches over and starts to unbutton his shirt.

Taron swings his leg up and over Richard so he’s straddling him on the couch. He wraps his arms around Richard’s neck. “Right now, I want this shirt off you.” 

“So demanding…” but Richard grins, and pulls the shirt tails out of his pants as Taron unbuttons it further, takes it off completely. 

“Mmm,” says Taron, running his hands over Richard’s chest. Richard takes a breath as Taron’s fingertips run over his nipples. “Sensitive?” Richard nods. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun…” He takes one nub between his thumb and forefinger and rolls it gently, grins as Richard pushes up into it a little. Richard’s hand goes to Taron’s neck and he pulls him down into another searing kiss, nips at Taron’s bottom lip and licks into him. Taron grabs Richard’s shoulder to steady himself, as Richard gasps, “Clothes, you’re wearing too many clothes…” and tries to pull Taron’s button-down off like a T-shirt.

Taron pulls back. “Hold on. Cufflinks.” He holds his wrist out and Richard takes out first one cufflink and then the other, kisses each wrist, slowly unbuttons Taron’s collar, kissing each bit of skin as it’s revealed. “Unhg,” Taron groans, and Richard smirks. Then Richard does pull Taron’s dress shirt over his head and his eyes widen, like he’s dumbstruck.

Richard curls the fingers of both hands around Taron’s shoulders and runs his nails down the length of Taron’s back and Taron arches into it with a sharp intake of breath. Richard’s eyes are so, so blue and Taron is just falling into them, losing himself. He strokes his thumb across Richard’s cheekbone, amazed and so far gone.

“Richard,” he breathes. And he kisses him again, bare chests close, those muscular arms finally wrapped around him the way he wants, and he shifts his arse on Richard’s thighs and the drag of cloth on his hardening cock is delicious. He works his way down Richard’s neck, peppering kisses along his collar bone, and Richard says, “Bite me…” and Taron groans when Richard continues, “Bite me like you did when we were filming. I’ve been fantasising about you doing that to me again for six months,” because he’d forgotten that moment when he’d gotten carried away, worried it would be too much, and now he’s allowed, he’s being _asked_ , and he bites down on the meat of Richard’s shoulder and Richard moans deep beneath him and Taron has to grip the edge of the couch to calm himself. Richard’s hand is on the back of his head, holding Taron to his chest and Taron sucks the mark a little, proprietary, then moves down further and takes Richard’s plump nipple into his mouth, flicks his tongue over it as it tightens, and Richard is chanting, “T… T… T…” and Taron just grins wickedly as he reaches over to the other nipple with his hand and pinches it ever so slowly. When he looks up, Richard’s head is back and his eyes are closed and his luscious mouth is slightly open.

Taron climbs back up his body and Richard raises his head. The heat in his eyes ignites something in Taron’s belly, and he growls just a little.

“Bed, T,” Richard says. “I want you completely naked and I want my mouth on your cock.”

“Oh my god, Richard. Yes. Yes, brilliant.” He stands up and reaches down at the same time to grab Richard by the front of his black dress pants where the belt buckle would be and pulls him up towards him, walking backward to the bedroom. Richard smirks and starts undoing Taron’s cummerbund. “Why did we wear so many clothes tonight, T?”

Taron just kisses him in reply, little nips and teases. Richard’s already moved onto Taron’s pants by the time they get to the bed, and Taron’s never been more glad he wore slip-on shoes. He slides them off and takes his pants and underwear down in one move, his hard cock springing free, steps out of the pants and drops them on top of the shoes.

Richard is still half-dressed. _Why is Richard still half-dressed?_

“Good grief, Taron. Your _body_. Look at ye. Look. At. You. And you’re so hard. Hard _for me_ ,” he says, like he can barely believe it. Taron flushes. The praise goes straight to his cock and then Richard steps in close again, and breathes into his ear. “Ah, you like that, do you? Being told how fucking glorious you are.” He runs his palm down Taron’s belly, to his thick thighs, across his hip and Taron’s cock strains towards him, purple head starting to peek out of its sheath, glistening.

Richard kneels down smoothly, hands on Taron’s hips, and looks back up at him. “This okay?” he asks. And Taron — Taron just chokes a little and nods. “Yes, god yes, enthusiastic consent.”

Richard laughs at him and then licks a stripe up from root to tip and Taron grips Richard’s shoulder and swallows a shout, because the _intensity_ is just something he’s feeling in his _toes_. Then his cockhead is in Richard’s mouth and the heat and wet and soft and it’s everything he can do not to just thrust forward. Richard pulls off and kisses the tip of him and then slides his mouth all the way down and just keeps going, one hand wrapped possessive around a thigh.

“Unh, Richard. How — ” and then loses what he was saying completely as Richard swallows while he’s down there, throat tightening on Taron’s cock and then letting up again as he slides back up to take a breath.

“Practice, love.” And then he’s swallowed Taron down again and he’s got a rhythm going and Taron can’t help but get a hand in his hair and just enjoy the ride.

Taron wants so much more than this and if he’s not careful, this will be over far too soon. So he tugs gently on Richard’s hair to bring him up, leans down to claim his mouth before he’s all the way up, and the taste of himself on Richard’s lips is hot as hell. He puts one hand in the middle of Richard’s chest and pushes him backwards onto the bed, crawls up over him, predatory.

“My turn,” he says, undoing Richard’s dress pants, finally, and pulling them down. Too late, he remembers the shoes, but unlaces them, pulls them off too, then gets back up between Richard’s thighs. Richard’s black silk boxers aren’t hiding much. “Oh, Richard…” Taron palms Richard’s long cock in his boxers, hears Richard’s soft sigh. Taron puts his fingers at the top of the black silk and looks at Richard for assent. Richard nods and Taron releases his cock, and his mouth literally waters at the sight.

“You really do want this, don’t ye, T?” says Richard wonderingly.

“So much, Rich. So much…” And then Taron bends down over Richard and gets his mouth onto the man’s gorgeous prick, running his tongue under the head and sliding down as far as he can and back up. He tries sucking his cheeks in experimentally and is rewarded by a gasp from Richard, so he does it again, up and down, smoothly and suckle and he finds himself zoning out into it. “Mmmmm,” he murmurs, and Richard jerks a little, apologises for it. “Sorry, sorry…” 

Taron pulls off, puts his hand onto Richard to keep stroking. “My god, Rich. I had no idea it could be like this.” 

“Like what?” 

“It’s… soothing, calming. I could do this all day.”

“Always figured you for one with an oral fixation. I love watching you suck my cock, Taron. The bliss on your face. So good. Such a good lad.” And Taron flushes again, hot with it.

He looks away from those incredibly blue eyes.

“I think I need you to fuck me now,” he says, quiet.

Richard goes stock still for a moment… “Sorry, what was that? I couldn’t quite hear you?”

“Tosser,” Taron grins. “Please, Richard,” he says, more firmly. “Will you please fuck me?”

And Richard surges forward, kisses him hard. Richard manhandles him up the bed, and arranges him with pillows. “You’re sure you’ve never done this, T?” he says. 

“Well… not with another human. I might have done some experimenting since we spoke on the phone last week… so… uh… there’s lube in my luggage…”

“Is there, now?” Richard climbs off the bed to fetch it.

“The black case. Side pocket on the inside.”

Richard climbs back onto the bed, puts the lube down next to him, places one pillow under Taron’s hips, gently stroking down his calves. “D’ye trust me, T?” 

“Yeah…” breathes Taron. And Richard nestles between Taron’s thighs, puts his ankles over Richard’s shoulders, spreads Taron’s cheeks with his thumbs and licks straight up. “Jesus fuck!” cries Taron, and Richard’s got a hand firm on his thigh holding him down as he licks into him again and again. Taron’s babbling now, and squirming, half wants to push into it and half wants to get away. He flings a hand over his face, sure that he’s bright red. It’s so incredibly intimate.

Richard reaches for the lube, flips open the lid, coats his fingers.

“This might feel a bit cold, and maybe a bit weird, love, okay?”

“I trust you. Ohhhh, Richard…” The sensation of Richard’s finger breaching him is nothing like when he tried to do it himself. It feels odd at first, the flutter of his flesh around Richard’s index finger, the drag as it twists slightly, Richard’s mouth on his sac and licking up his cock as he pushes in again, and Taron feels languorous and liquid when Richard murmurs, “So good for me, Taron,” breath hot on his skin.

Richard slides in a second finger, and Taron gasps, pushing back on to them until he can feel the knuckles of Richard’s hand curled beneath him. “More…” he whispers. “Deeper, Richard, want more…” And Richard groans and palms his own cock with his other hand to relieve the pressure. He adds more lube and then adds a third finger and Taron arches back, fucking himself on Richard’s hand now, “Feels so good, Rich. Ohhhh…”

Suddenly, he can’t wait any more, needs Richard inside him _now_ and he pulls Richard up to him, grasps at his shoulders, his back, hand on his neck as he kisses up into him, his mouth wet and musky, and that’s filthy and hot in equal measure, their chests together, touching everywhere, and he’s panting, “Fuck me, fuck me, Rich, fuck me…”

Richard grabs more lube, strokes himself with it once, twice, positions the head of his cock at Taron’s entrance and Taron feels that blunt pressure, slippery, soft, insistent, and he feels himself open, ever so gentle, the slow slide and it’s so thick. There’s an instant where it’s almost too intense, not quite pain, but like he’s splitting apart and Richard stills and he breathes, and relaxes into it, and that slow, inexorable glide into him continues until he feels Richard’s balls against him, and he feels full, and held, filled with amazement.

Richard kisses him, so gentle. “All good, love?”

“Sparkly…” says Taron. And they just stay like that, trading soft kisses for a while, until Taron shifts back and the drag inside him makes him gasp, and then Richard pulls out almost all the way and pushes back in, firm, holds Taron’s thigh up to get purchase and starts to fuck into him, deep, and rhythmic. Richard’s kissing Taron’s neck and Taron’s pulling at Richard’s nipples, and they’re both panting and kissing whenever their mouths get close to each other, biting and scratching, wanting.

Richard pulls back a bit and Taron sits up to close the distance between them, and Richard gets his legs under them both, kissing him deeply, arms around his back, holding them both up. Taron straddles Richard and then puts a hand behind him and he raises himself up, and Richard’s cock drags across his prostate and it’s electric. “Oh, yes, right there… Fuck…” and then Taron fucks down onto Richard with abandon, chasing that shuddering pulse of pleasure. 

“So greedy, T, I love it.”

Taron pushes Richard all the way back onto the bed and just goes for it then, jacking his cock and practically bouncing. “So close, Richard, so close…”

“That’s it, T. Come for me. Come on my cock, you’re so fucking _gorgeous.”_ And then Taron’s entire body spasms, and the world goes white, as he comes all over Richard’s chest, and then seconds later he feels Richard’s arms tighten around him and Richard’s fucking up into him, stuttering and pulsing with his own orgasm, and Taron kisses him through it, then collapses on Richard’s chest in his own mess. 

“I’ll… uh… get us a cloth in a minute,” Taron says. “‘M a bit dazed.”

“Take your time. Not going anywhere, me.”

But after a while, the sweat and cum is just unpleasant, so Taron levers himself up and goes to the bathroom, comes back with two fancy white hotel facecloths, warm and damp. He cleans Richard up and then himself, smiling as Richard’s eyes follow his every move.

He tosses the cloths towards the bathroom when he’s done, and flops down on the bed next to Richard.

“That was sodding amazing.”

Richard smiles fondly at him. “You are sodding amazing… so are you going to tell me this long story of yours or keep me guessing?”

Taron hoists himself up so he can sprawl over Richard’s chest, leaning on one elbow, and playing with the man’s chest hair with his free hand. He grins down at him.

“Weirdly enough, it was Elton who clued me in. I’m not straight.”

“No kidding, given what we just did.”

“Nah, but I genuinely thought I was. I’d never even thought about a guy before you. But then, I’d never really thought about women before Em. Apparently, I need to fall in love before anything else happens…” Taron freezes, rewinding what he’s just said.

Richard reaches up, and smooths his fingertips across Taron’s bottom lip.

“Is that so, darlin’? Don’t panic. I’m right there with you.” Richard draws Taron in for a long, gentle kiss and his eyes sparkle up at him when they draw apart again. 

“And Brandon is really going to be okay with this? That it’s not just sex…”

“Sweetheart, I told Brandon how I felt about you the night I met him. He’s always known that if I ever had a chance… I wasn’t kidding that you're my exception… for everything. I just thought it was out of the question.”

Taron smiles and strokes his fingertips down Richard’s jaw. “I thought that too. So glad I was wrong.”

“What time is it, love?”

Taron squints at the clock. “Uh… quarter to five?”

“Presser’s at 10.” He kisses Taron gently on the forehead.

“Stay?” Taron asks hopefully.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be, darling.” 

And Taron kisses Richard on the mouth, then snuggles in under his arm, head on Richard’s chest, and drifts off.

***

[The press conference is intense.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6kHyAWuQ4Y) The photographers come right up to the desk and crowd into their faces holding up mobile phones and the lights are incredibly bright. “You’re all quite close, aren’t you?” says Dexter. “Ready for some extreme close-ups.” 

Taron stands up to see the back of the room, waves a little, and then sits back down next to Richard. Thank goodness when they start, all the journalists go back to their seats and there’s some breathing room but then of course, the first thing they want to talk about is him getting emotional and on one level, he cannot _believe_ that was less than 12 hours ago and on another, he _really_ should have gotten more sleep. His voice is definitely a little rough… although that could be from _ahem_ other activities. 

And then there are a bunch of the usual questions, which they answer as best they can, and then someone from the Telegraph in London starts talking about all those James Bond rumours for Richard, and Richard’s blushing, so Taron reaches behind him to put a reassuring hand on Richard’s back, so in love with this brilliant man, and then remembers cameras at the last minute, and awkwardly shifts the movement so his hand is on the back of the chair instead. Richard shifts around in his chair, and modest as ever, says, “It’s very flattering to be involved in the conversation… at all … but it’s all just talk. And I’m sure next week, it’ll be someone different.”

And Taron takes his hand back and hums the James Bond theme song into his microphone, to general amusement.

There’s a question about Richard’s performance, and he deflects and credits the script. Taron talks, as usual, about how they played Elton and Reid as two people falling in love who were incredibly attracted to one another, and then Dexter talks about Richard’s brilliance in the role and how they made that relationship so real and so powerful.

Even if he hadn’t promised Richard he’d keep things on the DL, Taron’s not ready to come out and he’s absolutely sure Twitter is not ready for the hot poly triad that’s forming here but he still needs to tell Richard how he feels right that moment, international press be damned.

“Richard and I have struck up a real friendship, building that relationship together,” He turns to Richard, says earnestly, hoping Richard can hear what he’s really saying. “You know, you have become one of my best friends…and I’ve loved meeting you and working with you on this. I think the world of you.” 

_I love you. I love you._

Richard blushes, grins and ducks his head, murmurs, “The feeling’s mutual.”


End file.
